Emi and Gus
by Kaikura Tenshi
Summary: A young girl opens up Remus's mind to the world around him. pre-book 1, it all makes sense in chapter three...Chapter 3 is up, but not yet betaed...fear the insanity! And I fixed the spacing problem in ch1
1. the Man on Rosewood Lane

A/N: Sorry to all those who had to suffer the horrible insanity that was this chapter before. Fanfiction.net doesn't read the paragraphs on .doc documents as well, and I had them in the document copy, but somehow the paragraph spaces didn't get put in when I posted it. I have hopefully righted the error of the computer's ways, and hopefully now you can read it with the paragraph spaces where I intended them to be.  
  
And, as usual, things between *'s are supposed to be in italics  
  
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A slightly off-key whistled version of "the Yellow Rose of Texas" went drifting lazily down the street one afternoon.  
  
This was most unusual not because of the location it was being whistled in- a rural town in Wales-but whom it was being whistled by, the ragged old- young man who lived at 19 Rosewood Lane. He was rarely ever seen outside of his house, and it was even rarer still to hear a sound come from his part of the block at all.  
  
However, he did take his morning cups of tea outside; he would sit on the porch of his cottage and watch the sun rise. As soon as the ceremony of light ended, he usually returned to the depths of his house. The old brick walls were dark and cracked, overrun by ivy that had been welcomed in its youth, but was now an undesired child who would not leave home-loved, but slightly in the way. The lot's grass was long and unkempt, much like the man's russet hair. The old flower boxes under the windows were full of weeds and still more ivy. The beds in the yard were littered with bits of brick and dandelions in addition to the countless other blossoming weeds and thorny plants. A few ferns grew in the back of his yard on the border of the forest surrounding the village, but they didn't seem wellkept mainly because they weren't. There was an iron fence surrounding his yard that ran straight back into the forest. No one knows where it ends.  
  
But today he was standing outside with a bucket full of gardening tools in one hand and a pair of well-worn gloves in the other, whistling merrily as he prepared himself for the task ahead.  
  
The jeans he was wearing had faded to a cool grey after years of un- merciful use. They were slightly too big and sagged at the waist. The knees and seat were worn so well that they were white, and the cuffs were frayed in the back where they had suffered years of stepping on the too- long jeans. It seemed as though he had grown into and then back out of them-which he had done. A few of the larger holes on the legs were patched with slightly darker squares of denim and sewn clumsily. The smaller ones had simply been wrestled shut with thick thread.  
  
He also wore a faded, once black tee shirt with a bleach stain on the left sleeve and an old grass stain on the back from his days at school. It, too, had been slowly worn into a grey, too-big covering.  
  
These clothes that had once flattered him so well now only made him look even more tired and ill. They accentuated how thin he had become since his teenage years-which hadn't been so long ago.  
  
The grayness of his clothes made the growing number of unnatural, deep- silver threads of his hair stand out more against the fading reddish- chestnut. His hair was ruffled with the lack of care and looked as though it had not been brushed or cut in months-which it hadn't been. The black shirt drew attention to his thin, now bony face and the darkening half moons growing under his eyes. But all of that grey made his eyes pop at you, though they were now just another shade of grey, too.  
  
In the old days-by which he meant the days when he was not older than nature had meant-they had been bright and expressive. When he was very small they had been a clear blue. During the years he had spent so much of his time crying they had also contained shining brownish-gold centers. When he went off to school, the rings remained, but the blue had taken on a greenish quality, like the forest. Occasionally they had turned a wolf- like amber when he was too upset for word or though or feeling.  
  
They had looked a marvelous sea-green-gold with his young, fit body, wear- worn mind and tattered soul. He had been entirely tattered for two years now, but he was finally beginning to unravel around the edges, and along with the rest of him his eyes were settling into graying blue-brown windows to his frayed mind. That was why he had come to the garden.  
  
Unnoticed by any who were not looking for it, there was a thin, foot-long polished stick made of rich willow, battered with use and sporting a well worn handle, tucked under the waistband of his jeans, held up by a breaking belt and concealed by his tee shirt flapping in the soft breeze.  
  
The sun beat down on him harder and he knelt down in the middle of the side flowerbed, his back to the street.  
  
He suddenly stopped whistling and began to sing in a slightly hoarse voice that sounded as well-worn as everything else about him.  
  
* "This is my letter to the world, that never wrote to me,--the simple news that Nature told, with tender majesty..." * 


	2. Joy comes in the Morning

~Joy comes in the Morning~  
  
Another day, another dawn, another sunrise spreading dewy fingers out across the spinning world, and we can find Remus Lupin sitting on his porch in silence.  
It was Wednesday  
He has never much liked Wednesdays. Their symmetry bothered him.  
It was also the 15th of June and the new moon, so the symmetry of it all was driving him mad. He didn't even know what it was about symmetry that upset him and made him feel miserable. But in his first week of gardening he'd found more peace and solitude than he ever had in the stuffy, silent house.  
  
The faded black cup he always took his tea in was full of the last of his Earl Grey tea. Tomorrow he would have to use black tea, which always makes him feel hopeless. But he will not miss a sunrise.  
It was beauty.  
It was tradition.  
It made his day worth living.  
It gave him colour. His house was grey, his robes were grey with age, and his hair and eyes had begun graying too, like the life was slowly draining from him. It made him look impossibly old and weak. The only part of him that was weak now was his spirit, which was slowly drowning in the isolation and memories that haunted him.  
  
He sipped his tea and watched the sky fade into a deep lilac, then a rosy pink, and then it lingered gold for a moment. He stared right into the glowing sun.  
  
"Nature's first green is gold**..." he mumbled. He began to sip his tea while finishing the poem in his head. By the time he'd finished reciting it, the sky was a pale orange. He paused again, his teacup now empty, and tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.  
  
"Nothing scarlet and gold can stay."  
  
He broke tradition now and stood up too soon, edging his way to the sink and setting down his mug. He glanced as habitually as ever at the tealeaves left in the bottom of his empty mug, grimaced, and with a flick of his wand they were gone.  
  
"Good riddance," he murmured as he turned to pick up his bucket and walk into the early morning glow that would comfort his mind while he worked. Soon the sun would beat down on him once again, the pleasant warmth soaking into his cold, tired body. He nestled himself into the front flowerbed and tried to set his mind on the task ahead of him.  
  
He tried not to think of how he was a weed too; of how much it hurt to be yanked up out of the world and cast aside. How now he was doing onto others as had been done onto him. How he almost liked some of the sad-looking flowering weeds he was pulling out of their lives. How he didn't want to be the instrument of their demise. To ease his mind, he decided to start singing-not because his voice was soothing, but because the words and the act of singing put him into a tribal trance that made the work seem easier. It allowed him to forget the weeds' loneliness, and concentrate on his own.  
  
"I've known sorrow, I've known pain..." He yanked a few green leaved plants up and put them into the yellow plastic bucket that would be their temporary casket.  
  
"I've seen heartache again and again..." He stuffed his hands into the well-worn gloves and began digging through the dirt, rummaging for bits of discarded brick and twigs.  
  
"But I've got this promise to help me endure..." He mixed and fertilized the dirt as he sang.  
  
"So I'll keep trusting, this promise is sure..." He took a second's rest to smell the fresh dirt beneath him, and the heavy perfume of nature.  
  
"Joy comes in the morning, with the breaking of the dawn..." Then he stared at the pale, orange-red sky, longing for these moments to last forever.  
  
"Joy comes in the morning, soon these tears will be gone..." He soaked in the dewy scent of a silent dawn. Then he itched his forehead with the heel of his gloved palm and returned to the flowerbed.  
  
"I've been tested, I've been tried..." A tall, thorny plant he was uprooting put three long scratches in his left arm. One scratch trickled a few drops of blood, and then gave up. All three began to swell and turn a raw pink.  
  
"You've been faithful here at my side..."  
  
He stopped dead-frozen in time. He had just noticed someone standing at the edge of his fence. Not wanting to stare, he stole glances out of the corner of his eye and hummed. No one dared to be caught near his house. Ever. He felt a bit nervous about someone openly listening to him sing. He returned to his work, and eventually forgot he was being watched.  
  
By sunset he had finished clearing all the beds of weeds and would be ready to start planting in the morning.  
  
As he turned for his door, he caught a glimpse of something moving on the other side of his fence. A figure rising from the sidewalk, and abandoning the bush used it had been using for cover. He caught the vague outline of a small girl with her light hair in a sloppy ponytail wearing pale blue clothes. As soon as his screen door snapped shut, he saw the tiny figure skip down the road, faintly humming "Joy comes in the morning."  
  
** "Nature's first green is gold, her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower, but only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf, so Eden sank to grief, so dawn goes down to day. Nothing Gold can stay." (Nothing Gold can stay, author unknown) 


	3. A garden for Emi

~A Garden for Emi~ chapter 3  
  
The fading black tea he took is his tea in was just like him. He held it the same way every day and the enamel was thin and grey where his fingers gripped the cup. There was a small chip in the rim just above the handle. He had other mugs, but he liked this one-it reminded him of himself.  
Whenever he had black tea, he put some milk in to sweeten his bitter, hopeless day. As soon as the sun was up and his ominous tea leaves vanished, he gathered some of the flowers and seeds he was going to plant in the empty beds. With his wand, he floated them down the front steps and set them on his lawn. He closed the front door, turned around, and almost did a double take.  
Sitting on the top stair was a girl about six years with bright green eyes, reddish-brown hair, and dark freckles painted across her face and neck. She smiled sweetly up at him. "Hello!" she called and waved up to him. Remus thought quickly.  
"Hello," he smiled confusedly and sat down next to her on the step.  
"What are you doing with those?" She pointed at the pile of assorted plants and tools lying on his front lawn.  
"Planting a garden."  
"Can I help?" Her voice was bursting with enthusiasm s her face lit up. He stared at her for a brief moment before letting his puzzled smile die down.  
"Where are your mother and father? Won't they be worried about where you've gone off to?"  
"No. Mum has to look after the little ones. She doesn't care what I do as long as I'm home for dinner. I used to have a daddy, too. Then one night the bad man in black came and threw green stuff at him with a stick, and yelled 'abera cadabra' or something really bad like that, and now I don't have a daddy no more."  
She was still smiling up at him as his face fell. He did the math in his head as fast as it made sense. She was more or less three years older than the nephew who lived would be now. She would've been.four, then.  
Four.  
From what he had just gathered from her story, at the age of four she had seen Lord Voldemort kill her father. Sorrow flooded him again. The same sorrow he'd been fighting for three years now, mixed with the sorrow he now had for a little girl and her family. He thought of her a little bit differently now. They had more in common than she would probably ever know.  
"My name's Emiliana, what's yours?" She stuck out a hand in greeting, and Remus noticed the freckles littered over her hands and arms. She continued beaming up at him.  
"Remus." He shook her hand and put on a genuine smile.  
"That's a funny name." she wrinkled her nose at him.  
"I like it!" His smile widened as he defended his name.  
"Well, I think it's funny. I'm going to call you.Gus. It's just like Remus, but without the Rem." He chuckled and she continued smiling.  
"Then I will call you Emi. It's not fair that I should have to pronounce such a big, long name."  
"That's okay," she said as she stood up, "I didn't like it very much anyways." Remus had thought it was a beautiful name.  
She skipped down his steps and leaned over a pot full of red poppies. "What are these?" She pointed at the largest blossom.  
"Poppies. Pretty, aren't they?" She leaned down with her nose in one of the flowers and took a deep breath. She wrinkled her nose and giggled. "Can you bring all the flowers like those over to me?" She nodded enthusiastically and picked up the pot.  
"Now, how on earth did you get on my front steps?"  
"I sat down." She placed the flowers at his feet, and he sat down on the bottom step.  
"How did you get in?" She brought over another pot and shrugged.  
"When I touched the gate it flew open, so I came to sit down. You always come out that door, I know, so I waited."  
"How long have you been here?  
"Since before the sun came up. It's easiest to see the sunrise from your house. I like the sun. I think it's pretty."  
"So do I." He sighed and looked at the sky.  
"Why were you on my porch?"  
"'Cause I wanted to meet you."  
"Why? Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"  
"Well, because.they think you're scary, but you aren't and Sam dared me to, so I did because you aren't really strange and mean." She spat the last part out so quickly he could barely understand what she was saying.  
She picked up another pot of poppies, and he grinned. He was vaguely amused by the idea that an entire neighborhood of small children thought he was the local frightening crazy old hermit man. Well, maybe he was a bit of a hermit, but he couldn't stop himself from chuckling. At the age of seven he had met Albus Dumbledore for the first time. He spent twenty minutes hiding behind his father's leg afraid that he would be turned into a toad, or cooked and eaten for supper. He had been pleasantly surprised when he emerged for a peak at the man's face. "Care for a lemon drop, son?"  
"Why do your eyes always look like they're crying." He suddenly realized she was standing at his side and staring into his grey-blue eyes, squinting. The smile dropped off of his face. Remember, the inner voice said, you promised never to lie to a child.  
"The bad man came to my friends, too." He swallowed hard. "He said bad words, and stole one of them. The others are all gone. Nobody likes me very much now, and I have no friends but the sun and my garden and my memories."  
"Yes you do!" She put a hand on his shoulder. "You have me."  
He was about to cry, and wished he could hug her. The day that his best friends had told him they had finally worked out the Animagus spell and would be coming with him on full moons, Sirius had said almost the same thing. He began to play his favorite movie over again in his mind.  
"You didn't have to do this, you know."  
"Of course we did, you're our friend!"  
"Really?"  
"What kind of friends would we be if we didn't figure it out?"  
At this point, Remus had tried to thank Sirius who said, "We don't deserve thanks, it took us too long to figure it out, it's all our fault. Just remember, you'll always have me." He stared at memory Sirius for several moments longer than he had at the time. Next he grabbed Sirius in a one armed hug and nearly ran out of the dormitory to the hospital wing.  
That Sirius was his best friend, not the one that murdered a family of desperate, innocent friends. He wanted to know why, wanted to talk to Sirius, find out how long he had been a traitor. Had anything Sirius ever said been true? Right now, all of his friends were dead in his eyes, or as good as. He hated all of them because he didn't know what had happened that night to make him so miserable. He had had nothing to comfort him for three years, not even Harry. He would probably never see Harry either.  
This was what he had thought about night and day for three years in his dark house. He had come to the garden to forget.  
Suddenly something jabbed his arm. He snapped back into real time.  
"Why are you crying now?" He couldn't think of what to tell her. He swept the back of his hand across his face to see if he was really crying. He flushed and placed his wet hand on his knee, thinking desperately.  
"You cry a lot, don't you?" He smiled and felt his cheeks cool back down.  
"Only when you're here to remind me..." 


End file.
